“William, I—” he growls as he looks up, red-faced with frustration, but his words fall silent when he realizes I’m not the person he expected.
Grabbing his shirt, he quickly throws it around his shoulders, but he’s not fast enough to hide what he’s been struggling with. Not fast enough to hide the fact that his left arm ends just above his elbow in a gnarled mass of scar tissue. Where his arm should be is a prosthetic unlike any I’ve seen before—an intricate steel skeleton of a hand attached to what’s left of his arm by a leather harness.
And his face . . .
In the dim glow of the lamplight, it is more than anger I see in his expression. For less than the length of a heartbeat, I see something vulnerable there as well. Something like embarrassment or guilt, but thicker than either of those things and more severe. Something, maybe, like shame.
“I’m sorry, I . . . ,” But an apology doesn’t seem to be enough of an offering for the emotion I’ve just witnessed. “They brought me . . . ,” I start again, trying to shift the blame, but this is the wrong thing to say as well. When his expression goes thunderous, I stutter another half-formed apology and turn to flee.
The Captain is faster. In two or three long strides, he’s across the room, his false arm reaching beyond me to slam the door shut before I can escape, sealing me in. The cuff of his shirt is still unbuttoned, and the sleeve falls back to reveal the steel rods that form his wrist and hand. They’re so close to my cheek, I can smell the faint odor of metal and motors. The steel fist whirs and clicks like the gears of a clock as the Captain adjusts his stance and leans in. I understand implicitly in that moment that the arm is not a weakness. It is solid and strong, and somehow it has become a part of him. I’m pinned in place by steel and boy, and I’m not sure which is more dangerous.
“Leaving so soon, lass?” he croons into my right ear, all confidence and rough masculine charm. The warmth of his breath brushes across my neck, and the scent of him surrounds me as completely as his arms. I have the uneasy feeling that he knows exactly what his proximity is doing to me. That he’s completely aware of the way my traitorous heart has kicked into a gallop and my skin has gone hot and cold all at once.
I’m too nervous and taken off guard by my reaction to him to resist when he turns me gently, until my back is to the door and his face is mere inches above mine.
He is just a boy, I tell myself. He’s not a monster.
But he seems set to prove me wrong.
“Why, you’ve only just arrived, lass,” he says softly, his lips inches from mine. “And you’ve gone to such pains to interrupt my solitude.”
When I try to speak, the only thing that comes out is a sputtering sound.
His mouth betrays the tiniest curve of a smile at my inability to put together a coherent thought, and I know at once that my discomfort is nothing more than a joke to him. He does know exactly what effect he’s having on me. He’s using my reaction to him against me, and he’s finding it amusing.
This time when my face goes warm, it’s not because of any unwanted attraction I might feel. I square my shoulders and keep my eyes steady and—ignoring the thundering hoofbeats of my heart—I say, as clearly and calmly as I can, “You ordered them to bring me here. It’s not like I had much choice.”
His grim mouth twitches, and his eyes flash with admiration.
Or maybe I’m misreading him. Maybe it’s impatience.
He eases away, so I no longer feel the warmth from his body. But he doesn’t give me room to escape. “That’s true enough, isn’t it?” He backs up a bit more then, so he’s no longer pressing the door shut behind me. “My apologies,” he says, inclining his head in a small bow. Then he looks up at me, and after a moment he speaks. “I’d take it as a great favor if you’d not be mentioning what you’ve seen to anyone, aye?”
“They don’t know?” It’s so unexpected that the question comes before I think better of asking it.
He raises a single dark brow in my direction, as if to question my impertinence. “They don’t,” he says simply. “Well, Will does, but I’d trust him with my life.”
I wonder why he doesn’t trust the others, but I remember the wary look in the boys’ eyes and I think maybe I already know.
Anyway, I’m not stupid enough to ask. I’ve pushed him enough as it is.
With an almost elegant sweep of his gleaming steel hand, he gestures toward a pair of barrel-shaped chairs, inviting me to sit down. I hesitate, because I want to keep what little ground I’ve managed to gain in the last minute. Ultimately, I know I’m stuck. There’s nowhere to go but where he’s directed me. Not that I go easily—I make my way as slowly as I can across the cabin.